Mistress Of Madderlea. Mary Nichols

Madderlea, the estate is entailed. Richard Braybrooke came back from service in the Peninsula to find himself Viscount Braybrooke and his grandfather’s heir.’

      ‘A position, I am persuaded, he finds singularly uncongenial,’ Sophie put in.

      ‘Yes, he is a most congenial gentleman,’ Lady Fitzpatrick said, mishearing her. ‘Such superior address and conduct can only be the result of good breeding.’

      Sophie choked on a laugh, making Charlotte look at her in alarm. ‘If good breeding means one is insufferably arrogant, then he is, indeed, well-bred,’ she murmured, while wiping tears of mirth from her face with a wisp of a handkerchief.

      ‘I do not know what ails you, Sophie,’ her ladyship said. ‘Your cousin is also well-bred and she is most certainly not arrogant. Indeed, it were better if she could adopt a more haughty attitude, for she is far too shy.’

      ‘I cannot change the way I am,’ Charlotte said.

      ‘Nor should you,’ Sophie said. ‘If the gentleman cannot see that you are sweet and kind and would not hurt the feelings of a fly, then he is blind and does not deserve you.’

      The gentleman could see it. He was well aware of Miss Roswell’s virtues and it only made him feel unworthy. She deserved to be wooed for herself, by some young blood who appreciated the very qualities he found so cloying. He wanted and needed someone with more spirit, someone to challenge him as Miss Hundon had done. When he had said as much to Martin, his friend had laughed and reminded him of his list of requirements. Challenge had not been mentioned at all. ‘You have hardly had time to make a reasoned judgement, Dick,’ he had said. But then reasoned judgement and instinct did not go hand in hand.

      He called for the young ladies the following afternoon, not at all sure he was going to enjoy the outing. It might be the way Society dictated a man should court a lady, but it was not his way. It was too artificial. He felt a sham, dressed to make a killing in double-breasted frockcoat of dark green superfine, soft buckskin breeches and curly-brimmed top hat. He was not averse to dressing well, but to do so to catch a young lady smacked of hypocrisy.

      Sophie and Charlotte were waiting in the drawing room for him. There was still a keen edge to the wind and so Charlotte had chosen to wear a blue carriage dress in fine merino wool which almost exactly matched the colour of her eyes. It was topped by a blue cape and a fetching bonnet trimmed with pink ruched silk in a shade that echoed the rose in her cheeks. She looked delightfully fresh and innocent.

      Sophie, on the other hand, determined not to shine, was dressed in grey from head to foot and would not be persuaded to change her mind, when Charlotte said she had made herself look like a poor relation.

      ‘But that is exactly what I am, Charlotte dear,’ she had said. ‘I am your chaperon, after all.’

      There was no time to go back to her room and change, even if she had wanted to, for his lordship was announced at that moment and, after the usual courtesies, they made their way out to his lordship’s barouche. And what a carriage; it made Lady Fitzpatrick’s town coach, which stood beside it ready to convey her ladyship to her appointment, look even shabbier.

      It was a shining black affair with the Rathbone coat of arms emblazoned on both doors and seats comfortably upholstered in red velvet. The driver, in impeccable uniform of tailcoat, striped waistcoat and knee breeches, was sitting on the box, whip in hand. His lordship put a hand under Charlotte’s elbow and helped her into her seat, then turned to do the same for Sophie, but she was already climbing in, disdaining his assistance. He smiled at this show of independence and took his own seat and, giving the driver an almost imperceptible nod, they set off, with Luke riding demurely half a head behind on Charlotte’s little mare.